The Broken Sword
by OldFashionedGirl95
Summary: Chapter Fifteen, Restoration. In which loose ends are tied up and we hear just what went on in Archenland that day. Loosely-connected Counted Among the Traitors companion pieces.
1. Never Before Midnight

**AN: I wrote a scary amount of spinoff fic, mostly from inside Susan's head, while WillowDryad was writing Counted Among the Traitors. Posting pieces of it now, because I've been thinking about Susan and Lucy again, and some OCs that show up in the Lost King made their first appearances here.**

Her eyes were red with weeping. The tears she had shed in seven months were like the grains of sand on the beach below the castle: too many to be counted. When first they were faced with the full extent of his treason, she had fled to her chambers and wept—deep, wracking sobs, for herself bereaved, her family broken, her country left without a judge, and her baby brother exiled. Somehow, somewhere, he had gone wrong. She had failed. She was the elder sister, the caretaker. Hers was the task of ensuring all ran smoothly, that each man did his appointed task, that none went wrong. And he had, and she wept.

Weeping, she had pleaded for him with their elder brother, the High King, but at last there was no more to say. At last she had steeled herself, bitten her lip until it bled, and with shaking hand, signed the decree drawn up by the Lord High Counselor. But she could not bring herself to be present when he was publicly named traitor and cast from the land, and she told the High King that their sister was still far too ill to be left alone. There were new, weary lines in his face, but he acquiesced, sadly kissing her forehead before he walked away, his shoulders stooped and his head bowed.

The tears continued to fall all the next morning as she sat by her sister's bedside, sponging her hot forehead and weeping. A dryad came in with fresh, cool water. She looked up with red-rimmed eyes and asked, "Is it over?"

The dryad nodded and said cheerily, "The traitor is gone. Long live our Sovereigns!"

Almost savagely she snapped, "Why did you tell me? This is not a day for rejoicing!"

Frightened by her sudden outburst, the dryad hastened away. Alone once more, she rose and went to the window, hoping for one last glimpse of him yet not knowing if she could bear to see him again. Gone. The troop of soldiers must have already passed (and the window didn't even face west, she suddenly realized). They would march him up the Great River. Down the River Rush. He would be on foot. They would leave him at the top of the pass. Watch him cross into Archenland. That was fifteen leagues' journey! she thought wildly. Did he have enough food? A message would certainly be sent to King Lune, if he didn't already know. Would he be turned away? Where would he go? How would he survive the desert? She began to pray, as she always did when her brothers left the castle. "Aslan, Great Lion, watch over him. Smooth the road before him, warm the wind at his back, and strengthen his sword arm. Dear Aslan, please guard him, protect him, and—"

_Bring him home again. _With a sob, she stopped herself. No longer. She had signed.

Her eyes were dried and she had washed her face by the time her elder brother-her only brother—returned, sunburned, grimy, weary, and stiffly composed, from his killing gallop up the coast, away from it all. She suspected that, no mater how hard he ran, he could never escape himself, but she said nothing. That first evening, no one said anything. Even the Lord High Counselor was sorrowful and silent. That night, she cried herself to sleep in the chair beside her sister's bed.

The next morning she rose before dawn. Life must go on. Life would go on. It was up to her to keep it running smoothly. After that, she wore a narrow ribbon, black in her black hair, for the brother they had lost. After that, she planned and decorated, and tried to somehow incorporate the black-draped throne into her plans. After that, she hosted dinners and balls and dances, grateful that Peter never complained when he must dance with both sisters equally, grateful that the Lord High Counselor never minded dancing with her to fill their two-couple set for the line dances. After that, she picked brimbleberries and blueberries and strawberries and baked pies and found them untouched in the evening.

After that, she never wept before midnight.


	2. Hate

**AN: Updating again because it's sitting there in Google Docs looking lonesome, and I'm in the mood for angst. **

When Lucy awoke from her deathly sleep, Susan left it to Peter to break the news, and hated herself for a coward. Numbly, she watched as Lucy withdrew from the court and snapped at her best friend, Elinda, until she stopped coming to visit. Almost every day, she went for long rides in the forest or swam far out to sea. Susan, too, wanted to get away, but it was hopeless to look for privacy in Narnia and someone had to keep Paravel from going to pieces.

Almost every evening, Lucy, no avid letter-writer except when her brothers were off at war, wrote to Prince Corin of Archenland. When the Lord High Counselor inquired about the sudden correspondence, her answer was readily forthcoming: "The Prince Corin's tutor is instructing him in the art of letter-writing, a task most hateful to his young highness, and so he doth write to me in the hopes that epistles to a friend may be less tedious than those written only for study." There was nothing amiss in her answer (nor, when they were checked, in the letters she was sending) and the Lord High Counselor pursued it no longer.

Susan knew better. Every time she passed her sister's chambers and saw her at her desk, writing a letter, she would hesitate, rooted in the doorway, longing to say, _Tell him I love him, too,_ but unable to speak the words. They lodged in her throat and she turned away, swallowing the lump until it ached in her chest. She had signed.

Each was alone in grief, but she thought the King hardest hit, though he wore no token of mourning and outwardly all was the same. He truly was the High King now, that lone figure on the windswept mountain peak. He came to all official functions, dressed impeccably and wearing a smile behind which only she could see. The public knew no difference. But when his face was not required, she would not see him for days.

She sent meals up to his study regularly. Once she carried the tray up herself, but her appearance garnered barely a nod. Somehow, the smile flashed her by the Lord High Counselor as he read a treaty to the King, bothered her far more than Peter's preoccupation with work, and she retreated quickly, closing the heavy door behind her. She did not like to see Lord Gilfrey doing paperwork with the King, though she could not say why. When next she wanted to see Peter, she scheduled a dance.

Sometimes he would pass her in the hall, on his way to the stables. His grueling rides took him north—always north. Sometimes he went all the way to the marshes and spent the night with the Wiggles before coming back. He never rode south. He never rode west. West meant Beruna—the Table—the ruins of the castle—Beaversdam. South meant Archenland.

She knew from Gilfrey that the King suffered terrible nightmares. Once she heard his scream even from her chamber, and she wept. But she did not go to him. She loved him for sparing her from the proceedings that day. She hated him for doing it. Hated him for being able to stand there and pronounce the cold judgement.

She knew that it was the right thing—the needful thing—the only thing to do. He had betrayed them all. But she hated him for it, just as she hated herself for not going to him with comfort. Hated herself for hating him. Hated Aslan for allowing it to happen.


	3. The Bundle

**AN: And now, for your viewing pleasure, the first recorded appearance of The Bundle. I had it first. Ha.**

It should not have been surprising, really, when the King finally fell ill from the strain. He stumbled past her, early one afternoon, as she was on her way to hold court. He said he was going for a short ride to clear his head, but it was pouring rain outdoors and he was swaying on his feet, and she insisted on sending him to bed. She worried at the feebleness of his protests, but entrusted him into Sir Gilfrey's capable hands and hurried on to the throne room.

Lucy had ridden away the previous morning to settle an argument among the Dryads of the Shuddering Wood, and now Susan was left to face alone a veritable Murder of Crows, each loudly cawing his version of events, each claiming more of the "items under dispute"—shiny bits of metal and glass, mostly—than could possibly be his. At last she dismissed them for the evening, warning that if they could not come to the beginnings of an agreement, she would divide the trinkets among them equally and arbitrarily. That frightened them, and she hoped they might make a little more sense the next afternoon.

When they had flown away, she rose slowly from her throne and made her way, via the kitchen (where she got a tray of supper), up the back stairs and down lesser-used halls, to the King's chamber. Her first swift glance around showed the King sleeping and Sir Gilfrey reading by the fire. Her second glance reassured her that yes, the maid had kept it clean. Usually she would have been in here often to add her personal touches of love, but . . . she had not.

She placed the tray on the desk and whispered to Gilfrey, "My lord, you need not have stayed all afternoon."

He smiled at her and rose. "It was my honor, milady. And how are you this evening?"

"Weary from disputes among Crows and anxious for the King's health."

"Fret not," he said. "His Majesty merely requires rest." He set down his book. "Allow me to settle the Crows for you."

She shook her head. "That is very kind, but I promised to resolve it tomorrow."

"Very well." He bowed. "Shall Your Majesty require aught else this even?"

She smiled. "Only that you take your rest lest you, too, fall ill."

He bowed again. "I shall do my utmost to prevent such an unfortunate event from coming to pass."

When he had departed, she checked the King. He was a little warm, but sleeping soundly, his arms wrapped around a—what was that? The most oddly shaped bundle lay close beside him, under the covers. She eased it out and carried it over to the fire to examine.

It was heavy, thickly wrapped in cloth, bound with cord, and irregularly shaped—under two feet long, with something suggesting a crosspiece near one end. She unknotted and laid aside the cord, rather thinking that if it wasn't far too short, she'd think it was—

A sword. The last of the wrappings fell off and she gasped. It was the pieces of a broken sword, the lower half uppermost. The firelight ran along the gleaming, spoiled blade-edge, revealing the words, "—ark magic," and her eyes filled with tears. Caliburn. _Edmund's sword_. She traced the runic letters, an alphabet simplified from the carvings on the Stone Table. It was the second half of the inscription.

_Always beware dark magic._

The words Aslan had spoken when he knighted Edmund.

A tear fell, splashing between the letters. She remembered sitting beside the small form of her wounded brother, anxiously hoping Father Christmas's cordial would work, wondering if they had lost him, bursting into tears when he opened his eyes and sat up. And he had comforted her, awkwardly patting her back with a tenderness he had never shown before.

"We'd have been lost if it wasn't for him," Peter had said to Aslan at the end of the battle, for he had turned the tide of the struggle when he broke the Witch's wand with his sword, the sword he later named Caliburn. And this, too, was Caliburn, though not the same one. He had finally outgrown that sword, and Peter had given him this, of the finest dwarfish steel, on his sixteenth natal day.

Now it lay broken before her. Was that part of the ceremony? To take his sword from him and—snap it? She did not know. She never had needed to know. She had always relied on . . . on Edmund, to know such things. Broken, like their family. Broken, like their country. Broken. Broken. She buried her face in her hands and wept, trying to muffle the sobs. He had been so changed after that first week—so thoughtful and wise. Could Aslan have made a mistake? Had he known all along that this would happen?

The fire burned low, and sleep stole over her. She bit her trembling lip, tracing the E.R.P. on the pommel, and wrapped it up once more. Then she fell asleep, curled on the foot of Peter's bed, the broken pieces—of everything, it seemed—cradled in her arms.

**AN2: Immaturity aside, here's the breakdown of credit. The name Caliburn and the inscription come from an unposted WIP of mine, and I was the first to wrap up Edmund's broken sword into a Bundle. I stuck my Bundle, however, on the windowsill or under Peter's bed, and Willow was the one to give it to Peter as a teddy. She also was the genius behind the eventual . . . (trying not to spoil for readers unfamiliar with CATT) resolution of the Bundle, so kudos to her for coming up with that piece of brilliance!**


	4. Ache

**AN: So this piece is rather longer, but it didn't want to break any other way. Oh, and forgot to say this last time, but the Crow Shinies are totally borrowed from rthstewart.**

* * *

She was jolted awake by a scream and Peter thrashing in his sleep. "Susan! Lucy! Edmund! No! Please, _no!_"

She shook him awake. "Peter? Peter! You're dreaming, Peter."

At last he opened wild, haunted eyes and stared at her. "Susan?"

"I'm right here. Everything's fine. You were-"

She squeaked as he suffocated her in an embrace. "Susan." After a moment, she pulled away and he looked around. "Lucy? Ed-" The word died on his lips. She looked away.

"Lucy is settling the quarrel between the Dryads and the Rabbits of Shuddering Wood, remember? All is-" All was not well. "It was a nightmare, Peter."

Before the silence could grow awkward, there was a tap at the door and Peter raised his head. "That'll be Gil. Enter!"

Susan straightened her rumpled gown - how she hated falling asleep in her clothes - as Sir Gilfrey entered with a flagon of wine and a candle. He bowed, startled, when he saw her. She gave him an almost apologetic smile, and he turned to Peter. "Here is your wine, Majesty."

He stretched out his hand and took the goblet. "Thanks."

"Shall Your Majesty require aught else?"

"No, Gil. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Your Majesty. Good night."

When the door had closed, Peter drained the goblet and lay down. "Stay a little longer, Su?"

She yawned. "Shall I sing?"

"That . . . would be nice." He was already drifting off. There must be a sleeping powder in the wine. Did Peter know? Of course he did. For how long had it been usual?

She sang softly - snatches of music Narnian and English and both - until he snored; then crept to her own chambers and curled into her own chilly bedclothes. She couldn't hate Peter. She didn't hate Peter. No matter how bland his smile, he was hurting. Her brothers had always been deathly close; wouldn't Peter be more shattered than she? Broken. All was broken, even the pitiful wall she had erected.

Peter needed her, desperately needed her to be strong. Well, she could do that, She could hold the remains of their family together by sheer force of will.\

* * *

That was, in some ways, the calm before the storm. The next morning she wrote letters, contemplated a petition from the Black Dwarfs of the West, and discussed Crow politics with Sallowpad. But when she stopped in the kitchen on her way to afternoon court, she discovered that the King had not yet emerged from his chambers, had missed training, and his breakfast and lunch trays had come back untouched.

"I reviewed the Crow dispute this morn," said Sir Gilfrey, "and am most loyally at your service, if you should require assistance."

She thought of the broken sword, of the names he had cried in his sleep, of the question he had so nearly asked. She nodded to Gilfrey and slipped off her signet ring. "Would you see to the matter, my lord?"

"Certainly, Your Majesty."

"I think I shall attend to my brother."

* * *

That was only the end of the beginning. For when Queen Susan went to see her brother that day, she found him ill with a raging fever and called the Royal Physician, who soon pronounced it no common influenza but offered no more conclusive diagnosis. He suggested that a grief, overwork, poor nutrition, and lack of sleep had finally broken the King's health. He prescribed rest and nourishing broths.

Susan was a strong woman, but no man or woman can carry for long and unaided the burdens of personal grief, the management of a castle, the nursing of a patient, and the ruling of a country. Lucy did what she could, answering all petitions which required travel, but more and more Susan found herself leaning on the ever-present, ever-kind, ever-helpful Sir Gilfrey. He began answering letters for her, and soon was handling nearly all the correspondence himself. Somehow, he settled the Crow Murder's arguments to the satisfaction of all parties, and soon Susan left the dispensing of mundane justice entirely to him and divided her time between overseeing the Cair and tending Peter.

Some days Peter burned with fever and talked, in his delirium, of strange and scattered things - of cutting off the Witch before she reached her castle; of Nightshadow the Panther, dead these hundred years; of Father and the draft; of a King named Edward and a woman from a place called America; of Giants and beanstalks; of black ice and _Don't, Edmund! _

Other days his fever would be nearly gone, and he might sit up and drink a bowl of soup; then lie and listen to Susan read for as much as an hour. as Susan read to him.

It was after days like that, when the King slept peacefully, that Sir Gilfrey would come to the King's chamber with a red rose for the Queen Susan's hair. Then she would lay aside her embroidery and together they would walk the halls or stand on a balcony and watch the first stars begin their nightly dance.

It was one such evening when Gilfrey told Susan of the resentment he felt from some of the Narnian lords.

She had not heard of this. "Who is causing trouble?"

"My lady, you must not trouble yourself on't. It is nothing."

"But what is the matter?"

"Some grumble, thinking it not right that I, who was neither born in Narnia nor of recent Narnian descent, should wield the power of a judge and ruler over them. Methinks they know not the burdens of such power and wish it for themselves."

She laughed. It had been a better day than most, and she was in something of a lighthearted mood. "They forget that I was no more born in Narnia than you." That she and her family were supposed by some to be of Narnian descent was not widely known.

He shrugged. "Perhaps it is the gleam of gold on your noble brow that blinds them."

* * *

They discussed it, not all at once but here and there. One day, Sir Gilfrey presented a suit for the Queen's hand in marriage and she - she did not decline. He had saved Peter's life, her own life, and her sister's life. He was skilled in battle, astute in legal matters, and fair in justice. He was a pleasant companion, and a sweet-breathed dancer. What more, really, did she want in a husband? Even King Aran of Terebinthia had not offered so much, and he had wished her to live in Terebinthia for the better part of the year.

If she married Gilfrey, he could be crowned King. But she was not quite ready to think of marriage, for Peter's good days grew fewer. More and more, he lay motionless, burning with fever, and naught she could do availed. Publically, she announced her courtship with Sir Gilfrey, Lord High Counselor, and her approval of him as her deputy. Privately, she informed him that as long as her brother was ill, she would have little thought to spare for matters of the heart.

There were spans of days on end in which what paltry sleep she took was stolen from the darkest hours of the night, and the food on which she sustained herself was snatched at here and there. Gilfrey took care of her and made her eat and sometimes ordered her to bed with the promise that he would sit with her brother, but always there was the ache of swallowed tears in her chest and the beat of worry in her heart.


	5. Masked Knight

_I was never trying to write a full story arc, and so these pieces I wrote left things out and jumped around quite a bit. This section was written on January 30th, nearly a week before the first chapter of Counted Among the Traitors was posted. WillowDryad and I had known what the title would be for barely twenty-four hours (the first candidate, _This Finds Favor, _was mercifully short-lived) and had just decided that the banished Edmund made his way to Archenland. That bit of backstory may help you understand the discrepancies between this piece and the ending that Willow herself wrote, some time later. _

_In my "simplified and provisional" ending, Edmund spent several months in Anvard, Susan was never drugged, and I got Lucy out of the way by sending her to take care of the annual progress of justice around Narnia—and, of course, doing Secret Spy Work, reconnoitering with Edmund, and gathering evidence to convict Gilfrey at the same time. Peter got worse and worse until Susan sent for Lucy to come home and bring the cordial, but when Lucy arrived, the effects of the cordial lasted only a few hours before Peter's fever returned. After a couple iterations of that, Lucy issued an edict that none but the Queens were to feed the High King, and for three days she or Susan was constantly with him._

It was the evening of the third day since the Queen Lucy's edict. She was quite sure that the King had consumed nothing she had not personally deemed satisfactory, and he seemed finally to be steadily on the mend. She came up from the cellar an hour or so after dark, a turnip and a book in her hand, but the set of her mouth was unusually decisive for one contemplating a turnip, and she dropped it on a table without a second glance; then hurried off to the King's chamber.

Susan and Gilfrey were sitting by the King's bed, conversing in low tones. Susan's hair was pinned up on the back of her head in a dark, heavy mass of coiled braid, and while she was not quite smiling, some of the anxious lines had smoothed from her forehead.

When the greetings were made, Lucy held up her book, saying that she had come prepared to sit with the King for a good long while and that Susan should go and take some rest. That brought a weary smile to her sister's face.

"And after that," Lucy continued, "I think he might be well enough that we needn't stay with him every minute. I think I'll go to bed, and I'll see you in the morning, Susan?"

Susan looked up at her and raised one eyebrow, but said nothing to the barest shake of Lucy's head except, "Yes, Lucy. Good night."

Sir Gilfrey stood also and excused himself, saying he had another water rights agreement to look over for the morrow. When they were gone, then Lucy put a stick on the fire and sat down with her book. It was a thick book, and she read steadily as the oil clock burned through the quarter-hour, half-hour, and hour markings. At last there was but a quarter hour left to midnight, and though she continued to study her book, she did not seem to be reading so much as listening.

Not many more minutes passed, with the quiet crackle of the fire and the faint smoky smell of the oil clock, before the door opened a crack and a slim, dark figure slid in. Queen Lucy did not look up until the figure had tiptoed past the canopied bed of the King and disappeared behind the window curtains and into the deep casement. Then she set her book down and, going to the window, spoke in hushed whispers with the hidden man. "I shan't ask how you did it, but the guards did not see you?"

"Of course not," came the (rather scornful) answer.

"Good. Have you a sword?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall leave. May Aslan guard your back, fight at your right hand, and shield you from all harm."

"And with you, sister."

After a quick handclasp, Lucy took her book and departed, calling a quiet "Good night" over her shoulder at the canopied bed. For the first time in three days, the High King appeared to be alone.

It was barely a quarter of an hour later that the door eased open again, and a second dark figure slipped through. He set his candle on the shelf by the door, went to the bed, and drew back the curtain. When he bent over the sleeping King, a bottle of liquid and a spoon in his hands, his field of vision was confined to the inside of the canopy. He did not see the door behind him silently opening, nor the window drapes to his left parting just a hair. But when he had administered a spoonful of the tonic to the sleeping High King, he straightened, and then he saw

In the open doorway stood a woman armed, arrow notched on the bowstring. From the casement behind him there came a voice, low but clear, and it said "Halt." Sir Gilfrey turned. The drapes parted, and a man stepped out. The man was cloaked and masked, with the hood drawn up over his head but the cloak was thrown open and his hand was on his sword hilt when he said, "What do ye in the King's chamber, Sir Gilfrey? Know ye not the Queens have ordered that neither bread nor water, meat nor wine, shall pass the lips of our High King which they themselves did not with their own hands prepare?"

And Sir Gilfrey responded thus: "And what do ye in the King's chamber, masked intruder? Know ye not that the Queens have forbidden strangers in this place?"

The woman stepped forward, and the candlelight flickered on her golden curls, but her laughing face was stern and queenly. "Aye, she said. "So I commanded. And yet this man is here on my bidding and acts as my representative, while ye, my lord Gilfrey, have no leave to be here nor, nor have ye the right to feed aught to the ill High King. What do ye here?"

"The physician, Windspring, ordered this tonic for the King. Should His Majesty not take it?"

"That is for us to decide, my lord." She extended her hand. "We would have the tonic."

There was a moment when Sir Gilfrey, Lord High Counselor and ten years older than the eighteen-year-old queen before him, weighed the smoked-glass bottle in his hand against the royal plural. Then, defeated, he extended the bottle, and the Queen reached out to take it. At the last moment it slipped through his fingers and smashed to the floor.  
Instantly he was on his knees, quite apologetic as he picked up the pieces, but the masked man's sword was out and the Queen Lucy, thinking he intended to spill whatever "tonic" remained in the bottle pieces and destroy the evidence, exclaimed, "None of that! Rise, Gilfrey."

The masked man's sword prevented him as he reached for the last bit of broken bottle, and the Lord High Counselor got to his feet.

"It is late, my lord," said the Queen, "and ye are undoubtedly weary from reviewing water rights. These noble Animals"—twin Leopards slid into the room—"will escort you to your chambers. We appreciate your _concern_ for your king."

The minute they were gone, Lucy picked up the broken bit of bottle, and, leaving the masked knight to guard the High King, set off down the hall.

_The Centaur Physician, Windspring, tested the "tonic" and found it to be poison, whereupon Lucy and the masked knight personally oversaw the transfer of Lord Gilfrey to a secure and strongly-guarded cell. By dawn, the masked knight was no longer within Narnian borders._


	6. Shock

_Again, none of this matches up with CATT because it was written a good deal before. Apologies to Cofax7 for stealing Rhea from _Carpetbaggers. _(Everyone else, go read _Carpetbaggers. _I__t's the best, and there's a new sequel going now.)_

* * *

The next morning, Lucy harried Susan awake. Susan grumbled a good deal, but Lucy, in the traditional manner of younger sisters, was persistent and did not cease her harrying until Susan was standing before her wardrobe and blinking.

"Tell me again why I'm up." She yawned and pulled the skirt of a green gown out to examine. "Even the Horses are sleeping. The sun won't be up for ages."

"I came to see you now because you'll be busy later." Lucy took down the green gown and helped Susan into it. "The baker is up. I brought you breakfast."

Susan yawned again, more delicately, and let Lucy lace up her bodice. "That's sweet of you, but Gil and I are eating together later."

Lucy pulled the knots rather tighter than need be and pushed Susan into a chair. She thrust a muffin at her and said, "No. You and I are eating now."

"But I promised Gil—"

"Susan."

She set the muffin down. "Is Peter—?"

"Peter is fine." Lucy twisted her hands in her lap.

"What is it?" Had someone declared war? Was someone dead? She'd heard scattered whispers of a "Black Knight" in the Western March—who was he? was he causing trouble?

Suddenly Lucy blurted, "Sir Gilfrey is under arrest for poisoning Peter."

"What?"

Lucy was staring miserably at her skirt. "I caught him myself, in Peter's room, giving him something. He _said_ it was that tonic, but I had Windspring check it and it's not a laxative at all. Windspring said it's a common poison in Calormene, only slowly fatal if given in small doses and . . . "

The dull pockmarked words of symptoms and death blurred together. Susan stared at the blackened raisin clinging to the side of the nearest muffin. At last Lucy's voice stopped, and Susan whispered, "Where is he now?"

"In the dungeons, closely guarded."

There was silence then. She stared at the raisin. Whose cruel idea was it to deprive her, one by one, of the men on whom she leaned? Edmund was gone. Peter had ban—Peter had fallen ill. But she had thought—she _had_ thought—that Gilfrey was there for her. "I must . . ." Something. Anything. "I must see Peter." She rose, but Lucy's hand on her arm restrained her.

"Peter is sleeping. You may see him after we finish."

She pulled away. "If you have arrested the Lord High Counselor, then undoubtedly there is much work to be done." She would have to investigate herself. It probably was all really a misunderstanding, and she could resolve it. And then, with Peter well again, there would be time to begin fitting a gown, and plans could begin for the wedding. But it was a court day, and Gil had been overseeing that for weeks. She sighed. She would have to review everything. "Where's the afternoon court schedule?"

"That's why I got you up, Susan. It's all here."

* * *

Unwillingly, she seated herself at her desk. Lucy slapped a stack of papers down, then sat in a chair and silently nibbled at a muffin, dropping raisins in a neat pile on the tray, as Susan stared at the stack.

She flipped past trade agreements, official communications, orders for—executions? Gilfrey had Peter's signet ring, she knew, but two royal signatures were required for an official execution. Who had been killed? She did not recognize the name. "Lucy? Who is Brist, son of Whitetip?"

Lucy withdrew her hand from the scones and her jaw clenched. "You remember Whitetip, Rhea's pup." It wasn't really a question.

Rhea. Littermate to Maugrim. First of their subjects to swear fealty after the coronation festivities were over and everyone had gone home. "Not that Whitetip."

Lucy nodded, a single, short, jerk of her head. "Brist was accused by a Black Dwarf, about halfway through the summer, of following in the footsteps of his great-uncle and conspiring with a Hag to kill Our Majesties. He was executed, but no evidence of the Hag was ever found. When I spoke with Whitetip, I was told that Brist, of all her pups, had always been the most loyal to us."

"Then why—?"

"Because he was especially loyal to the King Edmund. Because he refused to forswear the disgraced King."

* * *

Susan raised an eyebrow and looked back at the pages in front of her. "The budget reports? I review these every fortnight, Lucy."

"Then tell me, what is the state of the treasury?"

"Quite well. The tribute from the Lone Islands just came in and—"

"The tribute was reduced this year."

"It was?"

"Look at these."

She glanced through several sheets. "How long have we been losing money?" Cinnamon, pepper, chocolate, cotton . . . the prices were all higher than normal. "Why are the Calormenes charging us so much more for imports?"

"Because we're in debt to them."

She dropped the parchment. "We're _what?"_

"You didn't know?"

"No! Why?"

"You know about the project to help Telmar."

"We accepted some Telmarines into our knight training, yes. What of it?"

"And we are funding all their expenses."

"What? All?"

"Aye. We provide them with Dwarf-wrought mail and arms, the finest Calormene mounts, beds, board. All."

"Why?"

"We say it is because Telmar is a poor country and it builds good-will. But can we afford it? You know I've never been much good with figures, but I don't think we can."

Susan reached for a stick of charcoal and a slate. After several minutes of figuring, she looked up. The two little frown lines had appeared in her forehead. "We can't afford it." She set down the charcoal. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

"Susan. You're the one who reviews the budgets. Why didn't you see these before?"

She had no answer for that.

"Go on," said Lucy. "There's more."

She set the accounts to one side and riffled through the sheaf of parchment.

"Keep going. There's a letter to the Tarkaan Anradin."

"This?"

_From Peter, High King of Narnia . . . to Anradin Tarkaan of Mezreel and the Valley of the Thousand Perfumes. May the blessings of Tash, the Inexorable, the Irresistible, be with you."_

She blinked and read it again. "_Peter_ wrote this?"

"He couldn't have." Lucy's voice was tight with anger. "It's dated after he fell ill."

"Then who?"

Lucy didn't answer. She didn't need to.

She read the letter twice. When the meaning finally dawned on her, she paled. Laid the letter down slowly. Stared at Lucy. "He can't do that!" she finally burst out.

"It's sealed with the Royal Seal of the High King of All Narnia."

"He didn't say anything to me about it!"

"Of course not!" Lucy had risen and was gripping the edge of the desk with whitened hands. "Would you ever agree to marry me off to Anradin Tarkaan to get me out of the way?"

"I wouldn't do that!"

"You've been so busy with Peter and the Cair, and Gilfrey was just _so_ helpful. Didn't you ever think perhaps he was a little _too_ helpful? You're the sensible one, Susan! And you were too busy courting him to see that he was taking the kingdom out from under your very nose!"

"Lucy, I'm sorry—"

"When was your _lover_ going to tell you that he was murdering your brother and making arrangements to sell your little sister to a _Tarkaan?_"

She clenched her teeth. "He is _not_ my lover, but tell me what to do and I'll do it. You're _not_ marrying a Tarkaan."

"Thank Aslan, no. This was the first letter. My spies intercepted it, we faked an answer—it's all there, but Anradin Tarkaan knows nothing of it."

"How did you—?" She gestured at the papers.

"I wasn't just settling grievances this summer, Susan."

Susan buried her head in her arms, not knowing what to say or what to think except that she was angry and sad and furious and—and—

Lucy's hand was chilly on her shoulder. "I'm going to see Peter for a bit. Gilfrey is securely guarded. Don't worry, I'll preside over court this afternoon."

She did not look up when the door opened and shut and she was alone.


	7. The High King

Lucy was quiet that day after her outburst, and Susan could tell she was still angry. They both were. Lucy took over Susan's to-do list for the morning, leaving Susan to sit in her room and go over the piles of records, painstakingly checking the accounts as her own anger grew.

She pushed them aside at noon to visit Peter. Lucy was with him. He was sitting up in bed, and paused to give her a smile before resuming his enthusiastic assault on the bowl of soup before him.

When she inquired how he was feeling, he said, "I feel better than I have in months. Better than I've felt since before . . . " He trailed off, and the easy joy in the room of recovering health seemed suddenly to have a bleak tinge. He reached up to give her a one-armed hug when she dropped a kiss on his finally-cool forehead, saying that as he was in such good care, she would get back to work.

"I'll be in court this afternoon," she said to Lucy.

Peter's forehead creased. "Where's Gil? He hasn't come yet today. Did he get called away to settle something?"

Lucy spoke up before Susan could say anything. "Susan and Gilfrey have been awfully busy the last weeks, with me away and you sick. Nearly done with your soup?"

He smiled again and handed the bowl over. "You're almost as fine a nurse as Su is, Lucy."

Susan smoothed his tangled hair back from his no-longer-sweaty forehead. "Try to get some more sleep, Peter."

Court that afternoon was long, but at last every aggrieved party was placated, and every squabble resolved, at least for the moment-even the one between the Brown Bears, the Eagles, and the Naiads over who had the right to fish the salmon of the Rocky River. Then Susan announced that the High King was in full recovery, and the cheers rose around her. She smiled tightly, then raised a hand for silence. "We thank Aslan for his grace, and beseech you pray him aid us as we seek justice for the one who betrayed our country and our family in poisoning his King."

There was a murmur of growls and hisses, and a screech from the Eagle, but she continued. "The usual daily hearing of grievances shall be suspended this sennight as we undertake this search. Anyone who wishes to confess will be received privately tomorrow afternoon in the west solar. Court is adjourned."

Susan went to her room, sat down at her desk and stared at the damning words written very blackly across the countless sheets of parchment, but could not bring herself to read them over any longer. Her eyes ached with held-back tears, and suddenly she grabbed a pile and walked purposefully to Peter's rooms.

He was sitting in an arm-chair when she came in, his hair hanging limply and his face still pale. He looked surprised to see her.

"Susan? Is something wrong?"

Slowly, as calmly as she was able, she tried to explain, but she had no more than begun on the havoc the Lord High Counsellor had wreaked in the treasury before the shaking in her stomach overwhelmed her and a tear slipped out. She buried her face in her hands and tried to choke back the sobs, but then Peter's arms were around her and he was stroking her hair and making the sort of soothing sounds he used to make for Lucy.

"I'm-I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I w-wanted so to-to be strong for you. Yo-you've been so s-sick and I kn-know you and h-he were g-good friends."

"Shh. Shhh. It sounds as though you've been running everything around here."

She pulled away. "But I haven't!" She stabbed angrily at the papers with a finger. "If I'd been doing my job, that-that _human_ would not have been able to commit this-_outrage!" _And just as suddenly, her anger slid away and she crumpled again. "You left Narnia in my hands and I've made a horrible mess of it."

Still he was nothing but comfort and solid elder-brotherly support, and she clung to him as he said, "No, it was I who trusted my seal to him, and a mighty poor choice it was. What else did he do?"

So they passed from shock to anger to sorrow to weariness, and soon Lucy arrived, curls escaping every-which-way from her braid and mouth buttoned rather more tightly than normal. She filled in bitsSusan didn't know, Peter asked questions like "Have the man's chambers yet been searched?", and all were together angry with the man who had nearly made himself King.

They ate a silent meal of soup that night, and then retired to bed, and Susan burrowed into her pillows until the whirl in her mind slowed enough for sleep to overtake her.


	8. Prayer

The next morning, they searched Gilfrey's chambers, and that afternoon they received confessions—a sickeningly large number of confessions. A Dog had listened at doors and been given meat for his pups. A Dwarf from the castle smithy had accepted fine ore and choice jewels to craft what he had been told were secondary signet rings for the king and queens. Several Fauns knelt together in their odd way and falteringly spoke of finance reports altered, parchments sponged, records forged.

They had promised that the audiences that afternoon should be private, and so Lucy had dismissed the regular scribes and handed quill and ink to Susan, who wrote best of all of them. Many of those they heard (like the Dog) were forgiven and when they had sworn fealty anew, went free. A few were ordered to remain in their chambers until further notice.

Susan noted each confession and each verdict in the fine, flowing script she had worked so hard to learn, and as the lines were laid down one after the other, Lucy looked sadder and sadder, and Peter grew more and more grave and stern. Susan felt anger and guilt that she had not seen sooner what was happening, but she pushed such thoughts away to listen and speak and write.

A Dryad, a young Oak-Girl, entered next. She curtsied deeply and knelt before them.

"My liege, I have come to confess."

Susan recognized her as one of the castle maids, whose tree stood in the courtyard, and spoke up. "What is thy confession, Oak-Hamadryad Alba?"

"I-I betrayed Your Majesties."

"When?" Susan prompted.

"Nearly eight moons ago, Your Majesties."

There was a long pause before Susan said, "Begin thy tale at the beginning, Hamadryad Alba. We have promised mercy."

The Dryad took a rustling breath and Susan dipped her pen. "Nearly eight moons ago—I tell this not to place the blame upon another, Your Majesty, for the fault is mine alone, but that you may know and understand what transpired—nearly eight moons ago, the great Oak-God of the North-West, the Father of all the Oaks and the only Great Oak left standing of the days before the Long Winter, summoned me to appear before him.

When I did, fearing reprimand, he gave me these instructions: that when I returned to Your Majesties' castle of Cair Paravel, I would be met by a Black Dwarf, and he would give me a great jewel, a cut ruby the size of a dove's egg or a pigeon's."

Peter gasped.

The words flowing from Susan's pen stuttered to a stop. _"The Dwarf said that Edmund promised a favorable decision for the Dwarfs and that he paid him a cut ruby, large as a pigeon's egg."_

"This I was to secret in my branches until next I could arrange to clean the King Edmund's chambers. Then I was to place it in the casket of gold and jewels which I would see resting on the King's desk."

_And the stone had lain, blood-red, in Peter's palm, as hoarsely he whispered the shattering words._

"Then I was to continue with my cleaning and breathe no word of the matter to any creature, Spirit or Beast or Human."

_"I found it in his room."_

She had stared at his wet eyes then as now she stared at the wet words inked on the parchment in front of her. She had reasoned when reason was silent. She had pleaded as a sister when a brother could not be heard. She had wept—nearly as a mother would weep—when repentance was shown to be false and justice proven a fraud.

Then she had signed the decree, the ink black as midnight mourning, the tears pooling in her eyes like the ink that pooled on the parchment now below her motionless quill. She looked a moment at the puddled bitter-blackness with a sort of detached calm, then laid down the quill and blotted the marred spot. She glanced to either side of her. Lucy, pale under her freckles, was blazing mad and trying to hide it. Peter, deathly grey, clung to the arms of his chair as a man slipping off a cliff clings to the least hold. The Dryad had fallen silent. Her own voice sounded queerly far-away when she heard it saying, "And so thou didst as thou wast bade, Oak-Dryad?"

"Aye, my Queen," the girl murmured. "I—I protested and refused, but the Oak-Father compelled me with every compulsion known to Trees. If I did not do as he commanded, he threatened my trunk with lichen and my roots with parasitic fungus. He would shade me from the sun, cast blight upon my leaves, and starve me of water, and then, if any seedlings of mine yet managed to sprout, to personally strangle or uproot them ere they reached a foot in height."

They had dealt before with the Oak-God. He was old, embittered against Aslan and humans.

"I swayed to him as though I were but a stalk of grass. It was a wicked and evil thing to do, Your Majesties, and I knew it, yet the threats of the Oak-Father frightened me, and to my root-deep shame, I did all he commanded."

Suddenly Peter rose and strode from the room. Susan rose half-way out of her throne to go to him, but Lucy's hand was on her arm and she weakly sat down again. Distantly she heard her sister's voice, calm, speaking to the Dryad. And then the Dryad went out and a Red Dwarf entered.

With a deep breath, Susan gathered the shattered shards of pain from their wide-flung corners and locked them away for later inspection. She took up the quill, deliberately dipped it, and managed to record the testimony of the Red Dwarf, and those of the Mole and the Cat who followed, without understanding a word of them.

At last they were gone. Lucy propelled her into the kitchen and joined forces with Cook to feed her supper—"If you go look for Peter now, you'll never eat anything." She chewed and swallowed until Cook stopped clucking and stopped passing more, and then she went to find Peter, rather glad to find Lucy beside her. They checked the stables. The King's steed was there, snorting and chewing hay, and the groom assured them that the King had not come by, indeed he hadn't seen him all day.

They made their way from one to another of the usual places. Peter's chamber. Peter's study. Peter was not to be found. Lucy was the one to spot the papers on Peter's desk. Susan handed her the candle and sank into the chair as she read.

"It's from Peter." (PWFP to LKP and SCP, said the agitated scrawl.) "He's taken the fastest horse for Anvardsent a pigeon ahead to Lune.

"'Lucy—see that word of the pardon and decree gets out—everyone. Susan—please, to your cleaning and cooking. I will do my bes...'" It broke off with a jagged squiggle from which not even Lucy could extract meaning.

Lucy was reading out the decree in a clear, bold voice, though there was no one to hear but Susan.

. . _. that We, the Sovereigns of Narnia crowned and anointed by Aslan, have discovered within our midst a vile traitor by name of Sir Gilfrey Becke, which traitor did make attempts both on our lives and on our power and is accused of a multitude of crimes against us, against Narnia, and against Aslan, the same which do include: _

_Betrayal of Narnian soldiers to their enemies; bribery and corruption of loyal Narnian subjects to serve his own ends; forgery and alteration of official records and documents; deliberate misrepresentation of Narnia's wishes to ambassadors of foreign lands; and the writing and sending of letters of state in the name and signed with the seal of the High King of Narnia; the same letters were unapproved by King or Queens. _

_Yet the greatest and most damning of the crimes with which we charge Sir Becke is this: that with fabricated evidence and false witnesses did he calumniate, slander, and destroy the good name of his Sovereign, liege, and King, Edmund Pevensie, appointed and crowned such by Aslan Himself, the Highest King of All; and that he did cause the same Edmund Pevensie, though innocent of wrongdoing, to be believed guilty by all and dethroned, stripped of all titles, and exiled from Narnia on charges of murder, attempted murder, high treason, and black sorcery;_

_Which crimes have been proved this day by the testimony of varied and trustworthy witnesses._

_THEREFORE BE IT MADE KNOWN _(Lucy's voice rang out in the study) _to each and __every_ _creature of Narnia, from East to West, that I, Peter, High King of Narnia under Aslan by election, prescription, and conquest, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, do swear in the sight of Aslan and in the sight of his Father the Emperor that _

_EDMUND RANDALL PEVENSIE is blameless in our sight; that Gilfrey Becke is the guilty man; and that the same Gilfrey Becke is hereby deposed from the rank of Lord High Counselor and stripped of the knighthood which we did wrongly bestow upon him._

_BE IT MADE KNOWN to each and every creature of Narnia that Edmund Pevensie did save our life and preserve the honors of our royal sisters and Queens, Susan called the Gentle and Lucy called the Valiant, and that the same Edmund Pevensie is free to enter Narnia and to go whithersoever he pleases within our dominions. _

_Let no creature stay or hinder him, but let him be accorded all the respect and honor due to a King of Narnia and a Knight of Aslan. He is at liberty to avail himself of all the benefits and protections of Narnian justice, and should it please him to grace Cair Paravel with his presence, he shall be welcomed with the highest honors and given once more the throne which is rightfully his. Also shall be returned unto him all his lands and holdings, intact and with more added thereunto._

_I, Peter, High King of Narnia under Aslan by election, by prescription, and by conquest, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, decree it to be so. _

_Given in our home of Cair Paravel on the Eastern Sea this XV day of the month Redleaf._

The candle sputtered. Lucy set the papers on Peter's desk, and silently they made their way to the top of the highest tower, where bright points of stars were lighting up in the darkening sky.

"Look, Susan," Lucy said, when the twilight had darkened to real evening. "There's Alambil, see? And what's-his-name, the Lord of Justice."

The sea breeze had cooled the hot face which Susan now raised skyward. "Glund," she murmured. "And the Lady of Peace."

Lucy gazed up at the wandering stars. "I think they're meeting. And look—right below Aslan's Crown."

Susan leaned upon the parapet and let the tears she had held back all afternoon fall quietly over the edge. Justice and peace. It seemed too much to ask for. And she had not prayed since . . . since that shattered prayer of blessing the previous spring. How could Aslan allow this—all of it—to happen? Had he made a mistake? Was he simply too busy?

She put her head down on her arms and stared up at the tear-blurred stars. Slowly, quietly, the last line of her aborted prayer came to the surface of her heart and found a voice.

"Aslan, Great Lion, watch over him. Smooth the road before him, warm the wind at his back, and strengthen his sword arm. Dear Aslan, please guard him, protect him, and—bring him safely home."


	9. Doing Her Best

_The life story of Elinda may be found here for the curious pencildragon11. livejournal 9385. html.  
_

The next day dragged interminably for Susan. Lucy was a whirl of happiness, caroling snatches of songs, her braids flying every-which-way as she ran hither and thither about the castle, calling out the happy news to any who would listen. She had planted herself at Peter's desk before the sun was up just long enough to compose a brief and simple version of his decree, and then she had assembled dozens of messengers—every Bird and Bat and swift creature within five miles, it seemed—and sent them out to crisscross Narnia with the news. "Everyone must know," she said. "Take the word to every Narnian, to the smallest Songbird's nest and to the deepest Dwarf mine."

Susan heard this and bit her lip. How she wished for some of Lucy's joy. But Lucy had known all along that it was not true; had staunchly defended him when no one else would—not even Susan—and Susan had believed him guilty, had struck him across the face in anger, had signed the decree sentencing him to banishment, and then had been too cowardly to even see the sentence being carried out.

Solemnly she opened the chamber which had been sealed for seven months. She took down the dusty curtains, letting the autumn sunshine flood in, and began to put to rights the chaos of that long-ago day when the soldiers had torn Edmund's belongings apart in search of evidence. And they had found it. Damning evidence. Evidence of despicable plans, infernal plots, evil deeds. And she had believed it, believed her just and fair and upright brother capable of such evil, and together with Peter she had banished him.

Together with Peter . . . but Lucy said that by then, Peter had already been poisoned, which left only her, Susan. A voice in her mind whispered smoothly that in truth, the entire guilt lay only on her shoulders. She could bear it, she thought, energetically turning the mattress and shaking the folds from the clean sheets she had brought. She had borne nearly the entire weight of the kingdom for a time, when Peter was so very ill and Lucy away. Now Peter had raced to Archenland, and—

She tucked in the counterpane smoothly and thought of how terribly close her brothers had been, ever since Beruna. She had long accepted that they shared something she and Lucy never would know, and now she told herself that if Edmund could find it in himself to forgive either of them, it would be Peter, who had been poisoned and stupefied until he was no longer responsible for his actions; Peter, who had suffered such nightmares; Peter, for whom Lucy said Edmund had combed the mountains in search of a cure. She would be strong. She would carry the blame.

It was several hours after noon when she at last stood in the center of Edmund's chamber and looked slowly around. His clothes hung neatly in the wardrobe. The floor was swept. Every horizontal surface was wiped clean of dust. New curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the litter of papers scattered like fallen leaves across floor and desk had been carefully cleared away. The inkwell was full. The pens were sharp. A stack of fresh parchment lay neatly on the desk. She shook her head. When was Edmund's inkwell ever full? When were his pens sharp? It was all _wrong._

She turned and walked out the door, down the hall, away from the painfully clean space. Would Edmund even want to return? King Lune had welcomed him, Lucy said, had believed in him. Perhaps he would prefer to stay in Archenland, where he had never been a traitor, with jolly King Lune and young Prince Corin. Corin—that lovable imp who could never stay out of a scrape. It had been months since she had seen him.

But even the dear Prince could not distract her from her dark thoughts. What if Edmund did return? Would anything ever be the same? Could anything ever be the same? Perhaps their family, their love, their trust would be forever broken, shattered like the pieces of—Edmund's sword! She stopped; turned back; nearly ran to Peter's chamber. The broken sword suddenly bore down on her like an ominous omen, black and terrible. Broken.

She burst through the door and crossed the room to Peter's bed. The bundle lay there, next to his pillow, the wrappings sloppily retied and a corner of a silver crown poking out. She reached out a finger and touched the crown, caught by the glimpse of it as if it was some long-dreamed-of jewel. Then, hastily, she gathered up the bundle and flew down the hall, pausing only long enough at Edmund's open door to tug at the wrappings until the crown came loose and she could drop it on the shelf inside the door. Then she forced herself to walk calmly, if quickly, on her way.

Through the halls, down the stairs, across the courtyard, and so to the stables, where she spoke quietly to a groom and was soon mounted on a brown palfrey and moving off with a word of thanks. A Cheetah across the courtyard moved to join her, and she was off, as in a dream or a vision, when one does what one must because one must. The smithy at the Cair was good, indeed, very good, but the Glasswater Smithy was even better.

An hour's swift riding brought Susan to Glasswater. Her palfrey stopped, glad to drink from the river, and a Red Dwarf came out to greet her. "Your Majesty?" His tone was puzzled, surprised.

She jumped down, still cradling the broken pieces, and asked to see the best smith. "Can—is it possible to reforge a sword such as this?" she asked, laying the wreckage before him and bracing herself against the table.

He studied the pieces, turning them over in his hands, fitting them together, pulling them apart. At last his red beard gave a quick jerk. Yes. The join would always be visible, but yes.

She sagged. How soon did he think . . . ?

Tomorrow afternoon. She would send a messenger for it?

Yes. Yes.

It was a good omen. The swallowing black darkness receded as she rode back to the castle, where nothing had changed.

The groom said, while helping Susan off her horse, that Queen Lucy had ridden North just after lunch, taking only Bleu the Hound, and leaving word that she would be back for tea. Susan thanked him, dismissed the Cheetah, and made her way indoors. Lucy had dispatched messengers to every corner of Narnia, but of course she would want to tell Elinda herself.

There was a flurried undercurrent in the Cair, with servants and members of the household and ladies in waiting bustling from place to place, whispering as they went. The Queen had promised pardon for those who confessed a hand in King Edmund's banishment, but no one was yet sure what would happen if King Edmund did return.

Susan caught snatches of conversation on her way to the kitchens—from "We'll all be disgraced for ever and likely many of us banished, I shouldn't wonder," (the River-Wiggle in charge of the ferry across from Paravel to the northern bank of the Great River, as he got a drink at the courtyard pump); to "Do you think the King will return, Iona?" (one Dryad to another as they carried fresh linens down the hall) to "All these convictions and pardons ain't good, Dubbin. What good are Kings and Queens who can't make up their minds?" (the Master Smith to his apprentice as they paused in their work to quench their thirst).

Lucy was not returned by teatime, and Susan sat alone at the high table. The conversation was alternately subdued and fevered. The resident Dogs and Red Dwarfs talked much; the Black Dwarfs and the Wiggles drank much; the Cats and Centaurs talked little and drank less.

Susan ate so that no one would question her well-being, but she did not know what she ate, and the food seemed to tangle with the shame in the pit of her stomach and knot into a sickening lump. She rose quickly when the meal could be called over and slipped out of the Great Hall. She had been alone for so long. Lucy had galloped off in her joy to spread the word, and. Peter had left a promise to "do my bes—", but no one knew what that best, even the High King's best, could achieve, and the delay—the delay worried her, for Edmund was still gone.


	10. Calm

Lucy appeared an hour after tea, Elinda riding pillion. Both were laughing, but Susan could find no cheer that night. She sat on Edmund's bed, turning his crown in her hands and telling herself that no news was good news until she knew it a lie. She left the crown on his desk and fled. (He used to lose it so often, and she used to scold him and help him find it; or she would inspect him, motherlike, before an official event and straighten the circlet that nearly always tilted rakishly askew. No more.)

She thought to find refuge in the kitchen, but instead she found Elinda and Lucy there, in giggling, flour-specked possession. Lucy was stirring a savory-smelling pot and saying, "Really, Chrysophylax was quite helpful, spying on and intercepting messengers this summer. And he only ate as many as we said he might!"

Elinda was sitting at the table, examining an ancient cookbook before her. She shuddered—she had never liked the dragon as much as Lucy did—and said, "But haven't you any dried apples in the cellar? Surely there is something out of which one could make a pie. Do you think Queen Susan might help us? She makes such lovely pies."

They had not seen Susan and she backed silently out of the kitchen, glad that Lucy could be so happy, wishing for just a little of that happiness. She wandered through the halls alone, passing and nodding to creatures great and small, but was only stopped once, by a family of Mice who asked if they might inspect the garments and wardrobe in what they called (with much hemming and clearing of Mouseish throats) "the empty royal bedchamber." It took her a moment to recognize them as Edmund's former tailors, but then she nodded hastily and asked them to please do whatever they thought good with King Edmund's Royal Wardrobe. They bowed and scurried off.

She paused at the ballroom door, but turned quickly away when she saw Frances and Millicent, the Otters, polishing the floor. There would never be midnight games in the ballroom again, and suddenly she wished she had not scolded Peter and Edmund so when they had only been having harmless fun.

At last she found herself in the empty throne room, where the peacock feathers and the great painting of the Lion hung on the wall behind the four thrones, where the songs of Mermaids resounded, where the Sovereigns sat to give justice to their people—but Justice was gone. One throne was draped in black, and no one sang.

With a sudden motion, she tore off the swath of black fabric and crumpled it against her chest; sinking in a heap before the marble seat, no longer able to hold back the tears. They splashed and made little spots on the smooth stone, and she scrubbed at them with the cloth. Oh, Edmund. Please come home. He could shun her. He could refuse to speak to her, but oh! if Justice would only return—to sit on his throne and wear his crown and represent all that was good and right and hopeful and secure—she would ask no more.

And a Queen of Narnia buried her face in the crumpled mourning drape which lay piled on the seat of an empty throne, and she wept.

Slowly, into her fog of grief and rain of tears, there came a warm fluffiness and a purring hum, and she lifted her face and saw the long-haired, cream-colored cat who slept on the foot of her bed—a gift from a minor Calormene lord once upon a time. The cat licked Susan's face and nudged at her hands until at last she gave in and scratched her ears. Such a small thing, but it made the creature happy, and she arched her back and purred. Susan smiled sadly.

"What know you of right and wrong? of guilt and shame? Have you ever betrayed anyone?"

The cat looked at her calmly, but gave no answer. It was not a Talking Cat, and she had not expected it to; but somehow, its presence comforted her and made her feel less alone.

Soon the cat curled up on top of the wadded fabric and went to sleep. Susan sat there, looking beyond the black of the cloth and the white of the stone to the gold of the Lion, and a calm of sorts came to her. It was not the forced facade of calm which she had borne for months. It was almost a peace. When, some time later, Lucy came looking for her ("We've been looking all over for you, Susan, and you weren't anywhere!") she handed the black drapery to an attendant and went to the kitchen to help with the pie.

It was quite late before any of them were willing to go to bed, but still there was no sign from Peter, no approaching horsemen from the south, and at last they reluctantly made their way to their chambers. Susan slept very little, for her thoughts would not stop their incessant, circular tread long enough to let her.


	11. Knitting Raveled Ends

The next day passed in a haze of waiting. Lucy (with Elinda) was cooking all of Edmund's favorite dishes, supervising an army of messengers, and dashing to the great gates to look down the road betweentimes. Susan tried to help, but for the first time in years, she ruined a piecrust and let a pot of stewed dried prunes boil over and burn. Then she gave up, found her needlepoint basket, and climbed the spiraling stairs to the highest tower.

From this tower flew the banners of the sovereigns present at Cair Paravel, surmounted all by the great red-on-green Lion of Narnia. At the moment only Lucy's gold-on-green vial and her own silver-on-purple lily fluttered above her. Peter's gold-on-red eagle lay folded neatly, uppermost on the basket of banners, flags, and pennants.

She had to dig nearly to the bottom of the basket—past a small, folded, Archen flag; personal banners of Kings and Queens long-gone; and even a crumpled white-on-blue snowflake which had somehow escaped the long-ago bonfire (but she did not glimpse even a corner of the blood-red banner with the black wand that had flown over the battlefield at the fords of Beruna, and for that she was thankful)—before she found Edmund's silver-on-black scales of justice. She shook out the musty, wadded lump and smoothed it against her skirt, rubbing at the silver stitching and trying to restore its shine; then folded it neatly and set her workbasket atop it, hoping by the weight to press some of the worst creases from it. And she looked long to the south.

The road approached the castle from the west, along the jutting peninsula, but from this eastern tower she could see to the horizon in every direction—could see the mountains of the Western Wild, faint and blue in the distance, could see the misty hills where the trees faded out and the moors began to the north. The low hump of Galma lay east and a little north, with Terebinthia hidden directly beyond it, and if the sun had not shone so dazzlingly on the water, she would have been able to see the shadow of the Seven Isles due to the east—nearly a fortnight's sail.

Southwest, she could see where the trail for Archenland forked from the Beruna road, twining through the trees to follow the curves and twists of the Glasswater, climbing the wooded, rolling rises and foothills, and at last disappearing with a bend around cloud-wreathed Stormness Head. There was no sign of anyone approaching. With a barely audible sigh she arranged herself on a low stool against the parapet wall and opened her basket.

She had two or three unfinished needlework pieces within, and these she picked up in turn, examined, and set down again. None was right. For a fleeting moment she entertained a wild, shining vision of crafting an elaborate work of art—some masterpiece of stitchery that showed the King, wrongly accused yet overcoming betrayal and returning triumphant. Good defeating evil, justice avenging wrong, peace conquering war. A spider skittered across the floor and disappeared into a crack, and she dismissed the bright dream. Such a thing was work for Alambil's hands, not for those of a Daughter of Eve.

She set aside the fancywork and looked thoughtfully at the needles, threads, hooks, spools, and silks. Then, with careful, deliberate movements, she chose a quartet of wooden needles and a new ball of grey wool. She unwound the first length of the yarn, and she began to knit. A sock. Her mind remembered the number of stitches required to circumscribe Edmund's leg, what sort of ribbing he preferred, and how long a cuff he liked. Her fingers remembered the minute adjustments to make for a perfect fit. Her heart remembered watching her grandmother knit (grey for socks, red and blue for mittens), and learning to wrap the yarn around the needle and pull the stitches through.

Long ago, she had knit smog-grey socks with her mother for "our boys" fighting the war against the Germans. Not so long ago, she had knit steel-grey socks for her brothers, to wear in their pre-dawn training with the Centaurs and Giants of Narnia's army. They had worn them to shreds, sliding across the waxed polish of the ballroom floor, and she had roundly scolded them when she found them out. After that, she taught Lucy to knit and left supplementary sock production to her.

Thus, in bittersweet memory and the rhythmic twining of wool twisted 'twixt wood, broken often to gaze south—searching the road for any approaching rider, any shifting of the trees or flurry among the birds—and at last to swallow and lift the growing beginning of a sock from where it lay, the day passed.

At noon, when the sun stood high overhead and the cuff and heel of a sock hung from her needles, she laid them aside with a sigh and descended. Lucy presented an impressive spread of food for Susan's inspection: fruit pies and meat pies, baked apples and broiled pavenders, six golden loaves of bread cooling on a towel and a sticky, glistening slab of honeycomb standing on a platter nearby. The Dogwood-Boy who tended the beehives had brought it in just that morning.

"Let's have a light luncheon," said Lucy. "I thought we could break open a loaf of bread and have bread and honey—perhaps some pie—and put off dinner."

It was a quiet meal. Susan asked about Elinda's father and mother and younger brothers, and they spoke in low voices of fishing and harvest and the coming winter. Lucy had a pair of Eagles taking turns with the lookout, and for three-quarters of an hour the two Queens and their visitor feigned interest in nothing but the weather.

Then Lucy and Elinda volunteered to ride down to the Glasswater Smithy for the sword and Susan (after seeing them off on swift horses with a bag of gold) mounted the tower steps and took up once more her lonely vigil. Slowly, the sun crawled through clouds and across the sky. Slowly, the endless rounds of plain yarn loops grew into the foot of a sock. Slowly, the fear which had subsided that morning stole back and gnawed once more at her heart. For still, the road was empty.

She jumped when she saw two riders approaching, but Clearskry the Eagle circled only once before gliding back to her and reporting that Queen Lucy and Lady Elinda returned.

Lucy came up to her and they unwrapped the sword and drank in the gleaming length of it. With a single finger, Susan traced the runic letters running down the blade (Beware Dark Magic) and the join, clearly visible halfway down. It would always be there, but the Chief Smith had sworn it better than new in every other respect and polished it to a blinding brightness. Susan had never liked looking at swords or knives, but there was something beautiful and good and right in the shining steel before her, and she smiled. Then Lucy wrapped it up again and asked,

"Where shall I put it? Edmund's room?"

She nodded; then thought of the pieces of a sword, hidden carefully under a bed, of midnight screams and terror glimpsed in an elder brother's eyes as he turned to her for comfort. "Better to put it in Peter's. But where is Elinda?"

"She went to the kitchen for a snack," said Lucy, and grinned. "She'll eat more than her share of the baked apples if I leave her there too long." Dropping a kiss on Susan's head, she turned to go. "We'll watch from the south tower."

There was nothing more to do but wait. Soon two heads—one brown, one blonde—appeared over the parapet of the southern tower, below her. Her friendly wave was answered, but they were too far for conversation to carry. She knitted on, her fingers losing their rhythm to count and then jumping ahead. The sun edged toward the Western Mountains. She reached for a darning needle to weave the last stitches together and close the toe.

Just as the sun slid behind the mountains, just as the last stitch slipped off her needle, a great screech came from Clearskry and her heart jumped. She rose, the sock dropping from her fingers, and looked south. Below her Lucy was jumping up and down and hugging Elinda. Beyond that—she blinked, not daring to trust her eyes. Was it really there?

Far to the south, small as mice, she could just glimpse two riders through the trees, approaching Paravel.

_Edmund._


	12. Cheer

_My apologies for the erratic chapter sizes._

Clearskry was winging toward her now. He alit first at the lower tower, then rose to where she stood, motionless, the stones of the wall cold and rough in her hands. "Their Majesties, High King Peter and King Edmund approach, accompanied by a procession." The Eagle's voice was harsh and grating. She thought it the most beautiful sound she'd heard in months.

Below her, Lucy and Elinda had already disappeared from the towertop, and she turned to the flagstaff. Soon she had run up the Kings' banners, so that five great flags flew over Cair Paravel of the Four Thrones. Narnia was whole again.  
She gazed once more to the south, and a tear slipped down her cheek, then she gathered her work and descended the spiraling stair.

Her brothers were still hours away, but now there were things to be done. Lucy had the entire household gathered in the courtyard by the time Susan came out the door, and she slipped into the back of the gathering as Lucy began to speak from where she was standing on the steps of the keep. Her voice was clear and glad, and all were silent to hear her words.

"Good Narnians," she called. "Our royal brothers and Kings, Peter and Edmund, return from Anvard and shall soon be among us. Let each to his duty and place, for there shall be a great feast this night," (cheers) "and on the morrow a national holiday on which no work shall be done," (more cheers) "and let there be feastings and merriments until this night sennight." The cheers resounded against the great stone walls, and the courtyard erupted in a bustle of activity.

Susan was called hither and thither for the next two hours as the Dryads hung great ropes of autumn leaves on the walls and railings (should we move this tapestry, Your Majesty?), the Dwarfs prepared torches (shall we place these here or there?), the kitchen staff put the final touches on the feast (ought there be more salt in this soup?) and spread the gleaming white linen clothes over the tables high and low.

The castle was ablaze with light—torches and candles and lamps in every corner, hanging from the ceiling, shining through the stained glass of the windows—and Susan thought, as she adjusted her coronet and took her place beside her sister in the West Gate (the Kings are nearly here, Your Majesties), that she had never seen the stars so bright, either. There was just a sliver of new moon (new beginnings) and the band had struck up a merry tune.

First came two Stags, in all their autumn glory, and after them several Dwarfs marched, with drums and fifes, and beyond them—Peter, on his black horse, and Edmund on a white one. Behind them were all sorts of Narnians who had joined the triumphant procession of King Edmund the Just, returned to Narnia. With a cry of delight, Lucy ran forward and oh! how she wanted to follow, but the burden she had taken up weighed her down and she could not move.


	13. It Burns Like Fire

At last the procession reached the gates of Cair Paravel. The Stags took up positions on either side of the gate. The Dwarfs stood to one side, drumming away. And then, the King's horses stopped before her, and a great Narnian cheer went up—clapping and shouting and barking and meowrling and creaking and gushing and whistling, and cries of "King Edmund," and "Long live our Kings!"

First Peter dismounted and helped Lucy down from her perch on Edmund's horse, and then Edmund swung a leg over and stepped down. Together, the three of them moved toward her, Sovereigns of Narnia returning home to Cair Paravel. She was mistress of the castle, and now it was time to greet them. She took a step forward and sank into a curtsy.

"Welcome to Narnia, Your Majesty."

She said little during dinner, but made sure their plates were full and stole glances at Edmund. He was sitting to her left, beyond Peter, and Lucy had dragged her heavy, carved chair all the way around to sit on his other side, as close as possible. He was thin—too thin—too pale, and his dark hair needed cutting, but Lucy had prepared plenty of food and in the candlelight the color seemed to come back into his cheeks.

He greeted each dish eagerly, and after every bite he would squeeze Lucy's arm and tell her how good it was, or look over at Peter as if reassuring himself that Peter really was there, healthy, and in his right mind. And he was—almost entirely recovered—though after one sip of wine he had scowled into his goblet and sent it away to be replaced with sweet cider.

But every time Edmund's dark eyes turned her way, anxiously (condemningly?) searching her out, she looked down at her plate or passed the platter of birds or turned to speak to the musicians. And all through the meal, one by one, Narnians of every race rose and made their way in ones and twos to the high table to swear renewed fealty to King Edmund, so that it was not very difficult to avoid meeting his gaze.

Narnia was famed for her mercy, and the innocent has nothing to fear from justice, but to the one stained with guilt the Eye of Justice burns like fire.

The feast wound down, and most were on their second piece of pie, when the bard began to tune his harp. She beckoned to him.

"Of what think you to sing?"

The lines were already shaping themselves in his mind, and he smiled. "Of bonds broken, of brothers sundered, of our courageous King overcoming adversity, through sand and storm searching striding." He was warming to his topic. "Weary, unwanted, wasted, undaunted—"

"No." She shook her head. "No. Sing not of that, good Libruns. Sing rather of—of Cole and Colin."

But Peter heard what she said and leaned over to veto that. "Not Cole and Colin. They sang that last night in Anvard."

Which was only fair. It was an Archenlandian tale.

"What about the Brothers of Spotted Rock?" she asked, and that seemed to suit. Thankfully.

Libruns finished tuning his harp and raised his voice to chant the old tale of the two Dwarf brothers, and the treasures they discovered. He told it clearly and well, and in the flickering candlelight every face was turned toward him, listening intently until the brothers should be reconciled. And when the tale reached its conclusion, complete with an new-forged epilogue on the love and lordship of the Lion, there was a Narnian cheer for Libruns the Bard.

Then the feast was over. They rose. Edmund said something to Peter, and Lucy watched them, glowing with happy contentment but just waiting to pounce on Edmund at the first break in the conversation.

"Come," Susan said to Lucy. "Let them alone. Surely they have much to catch up on."

Peter looked up, smiling, and waved a hand. "We spent the whole day together and yesterday besides. I can be fair and let Lucy have a turn if Edmund's not too tired. Are you, Ed?"

Peter looked so worried, then, that Susan wished she'd never let herself be deceived by that—snake.

But Edmund shook his head and offered Lucy his arm, so Susan inclined her head and said (to Peter, really), "If Your Majesty will excuse me, I must give the morrow's orders in the kitchen," and she made her exit. Behind her, she heard Edmund saying,

"Oughtn't we tell her that you declared tomorrow a national holiday all up and down the Glasswater?" and Lucy laughed, but Susan did not look back.

There really was little to attend to in the kitchens. "No work" never really means _no_ work, but it can mean very little indeed, and when all was in readiness for the morning, the faithful staff could go their merry way. Susan climbed the stairs, nodding to a Bat and a Skunk on evening guard duty, and quietly went to her chamber, pausing only a moment in the doorway to listen to the laughter from Lucy's room. Then she shut the door, murmuring a greeting to Esther, who was curled on the foot of the bed. The cat stared at her with unblinking blue eyes, and Susan sat down beside it, shaking her head at the lady in waiting who appeared.

"Go on ahead to bed, Cadena. I'll manage tonight." And (after unbuttoning the buttons Susan never could reach) the Dryad did just that.

Susan hung up her dress in her wardrobe like a good little girl and pulled her nightgown over her head, feeling quite lonely. But it was a resigned, quiet sort of aloneness, not the weeping kind, and she seated herself in her rocking-chair by the window, the cat on her lap. She could hear Peter laughing. "I guess it's just us, then," she said to Esther, rocking slowly back and forth. "All the same, I wish—"

She reached for her knitting needles and the ball of yarn and did not complete the sentence.

The next morning, when she had washed and dressed, she seated herself at her desk and sent Cadena to bring her a little breakfast. It might officially be a holiday, but that meant no official business to interrupt, and as good a time as any to review the budget and see where economy measures might be instituted. She did not look up when the tray appeared at her elbow. "Thank you, Cadena."

"Susan."

She jumped. "Peter." The word was more accusing than she meant it to be.

"Why aren't you coming down to breakfast?"

"I have a lot of work to do."

"Edmund thinks you're hiding from him."

"I'm not." _Liar. _She swallowed. "The budget needs immediate attention. We'll be bankrupted if we ignore it much longer."

He sighed. "Well, don't spend all day on it. Lucy's planning a picnic lunch."

She turned back to her desk. "That's nice." (She nearly said, "Have fun," but bit her tongue just in time. )

He stood there a moment more, but she did not turn around and at last he left.

She ate a buttered roll and then for an hour or more she worked in silence, sipping watered wine from time to time and frowning over the numbers. Her ladies in waiting had the day off and had all gone out of doors to enjoy the glorious autumn day. Even Esther, the cat, tired of the quiet and the scratching of Susan's quill and wandered away.

So she was really and truly alone when the knock came at the door.

She tensed. Just one tap. Her quill dripped. Then—

_Shave and-a haircut. Five bob._

She laid down her quill and stood, her chair scraping on the floor. "Enter."

He closed the door softly behind himself. Then there was silence.

"May I sit down?" he said at last, and she, gripping the gold pomander ball that swung from her waist, found voice to say,

"Please."

He sat, carefully, in the carved chair (the one with purple-on-purple paisley cushions) by the fireplace, and he clasped his hands about his knee. Then he waited, looking at her with an expression that said nothing at all.

At last he looked away and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper but loud in the stillness as a royal proclamation in court.

"Peter said you were busy. I hope I am not intruding?"

"No, my lord."

Then the silence stretched out again.

"Lucy told me that you were the one who took Caliburn to be reforged. Thank you."

She did not know what to say to that. "You're welcome."

He took off his crown—the narrow golden circlet each of them wore most of the time—and twisted it in his hands. Dozens of words roiled just out of reach, and she said nothing.

When he spoke, it was not what she had thought he would say.

What he said was, "Do you still hate me?"


	14. Forgiven

She gasped and looked up. Behind the too-long hair, his eyes were pained, and she suddenly saw what she had done. She could arrange seating arrangements to avoid offense or select words to send just the message intended and no more, and yet somehow she was blind to her own actions.

"No." Then, suddenly, all the fragmented thoughts and shattered hopes and carefully-stitched resolutions collapsed in an untidy heap, and words spilled out.

"You—you saved Peter's life, and Lucy's honor, and—and I don't know how I ever believed him, how I ever listened to him, when he was such a snake. Lucy knew it was wrong and I didn't listen to her and Peter—it wasn't Peter's fault—only mine."

Somehow, he was standing,then, and she was kneeling. And there arose within her words which she hardly dared speak but could no longer bear leave unsaid. "Forgive me."

And then he was lifting her to her feet and his warm thumb was wiping away the tears that flooded her sight. "Look at me," he commanded when she had calmed, and tremblingly she obeyed.

"I, Edmund, do forgive you, Susan, in the name of Aslan and the forgiveness which he hath so readily granted. Let it be no more."

And then he held her safe, while she wept.

She clung to him, sobbing, and all she could say was "Oh, Edmund. Oh, Edmund. I was so frightened." But she had not known she was frightened until just then.

"Frightened? Of me? Susan—"

"No—yes," she said, half-laughing, giddy with the release of the burden that had rolled off her shoulders with his forgiveness. "I thought we'd lost you forever and Aslan had made a mistake and I was scared Peter would die and Narnia would fall apart and I wouldn't be able to hold it together and I would be all alone. And it was winter when—when you left, and snowy, and I was afraid you wouldn't be warm enough and Lune wouldn't help you and—"

He pulled away then to look at her. "Wait, Susan. You worried for me?"

She bit her lip and nodded. "And then Lucy showed it was that Calormene snake who was destroying Narnia and I—I thought it was too late and you'd never come back and I never—never could tell you how sorry I was." She sniffled and looked up at him. To her surprise, his eyes, too, were moist.

He hugged her close and kissed her forehead. "You really worried about me?" he said again, as if not quite trusting his ears.

She nodded again and took the handkerchief he offered. "I was certain that if you didn't catch your death of cold in the mountains then you would surely die of thirst in the desert." She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat and sounded more like a sob. She took a deep breath and went on, a little more calmly. "Then Lucy started writing to Prince Corin twice a week, and I told myself you must be safe in Anvard. You know how Lucy is about letters."

He smiled sadly. "Lucy said you would stand just outside her doorway, watching her, whenever she was writing."

"I knew she was writing to you and I always wanted—wanted—but—" She broke down then and he was tall and solid and strong and let her cry.

When she had cried herself out and blown her nose on his handkerchief, he kissed her forehead again and said, "Aslan was with me, Susan—in the mountains and the snow, speaking to Lune before I even got to Anvard—every step of the way. Lucy was here with you, and by the grace of Aslan and the tirelessness of Lucy, I'm home again."

She leaned against him a moment longer, noticing as if for the first time how thin he was. She straightened and pursed her lips. "I believe you've grown another inch, but you're skinnier than ever."

"I'm not skinny!" he said. "I'm long and lean and lithe!"

It was a losing battle, and she shook her head. "And beginning to sound like Libruns. Tomorrow, you're getting a haircut."

He tried to groan, but couldn't help grinning as he settled his crown more comfortably on his head and offered her his arm. "Shall we descend, milady? Our royal and impatient sister doth require our presence below."


	15. Restoration

They found Lucy and Peter in the lower solar, singing. Lucy bounced up when they entered, thrust her lute at Peter, and ran over. "There you are! Cook packed us a basket of lunch and we're going to have a picnic and take absolutely no one with us."

Peter laid aside the lute and came over. "Better not disappoint her; she's spent half the morning concocting elaborate plans to escape the minders."

"Peter!" Lucy poked him and made as if to drag Susan straight to the kitchens, but Susan shook her head and tucked her hand more firmly behind Edmund's arm.

Peter took her other hand, and Lucy was left to skip down the hall in the lead, while Susan savored the feeling of a brother on each side.

There was an air of gaity and festivity all through the castle. Nodding and smiling, they greeted each knot of merrymakers in the halls and courtyard. "There are lots more out on the beach," Lucy said, and when they stood still a moment they could hear, over the taking and laughter and boisterous Narnian cheer, the high, cool, clear sound of the merpeople singing.

When they reached the kitchen, the "basket" was discovered to be rather a hamper, which the boys gallantly undertook to carry between them, leaving Susan and Lucy to follow behind. They took the ferry across the river mouth (the Wiggle ferryman, seeing no advantage in frolicsome fun and not wishing to be responsible for the deaths of those hapless souls who would be otherwise left to find their own way across, was stubbornly at his post); then followed the river-bank west. The Trees bowed, rustling, as they passed, the Naiads splashed them, the Squirrels chattered, the Rabbits looked at them with large, soft eyes and thumped the ground with their hind legs. With each and every one of these their people they exchanged greetings (excepting only the circle of dancing Fauns and Nymphs, to whom they waved from a distance and received an answering wave).

After a little while they came to Castle Hill. They had first seen Cair Paravel on the Eastern Sea from the Hill of the Stone Table, but when they came down from that sacred place and marched to Beruna, they'd lost sight of the shining castle for nearly three days. The sun was setting on their triumphal march east when they reached the crest of a knoll and saw, suddenly, Paravel spread before them.

Now, Susan closed her eyes for just as moment as Lucy's hand crept into hers. She could almost, _almost, _make herself imagine they were children again—off for an explore in the wood with a packet of lunch—until she opened her eyes. There were worry-tracks in Lucy's forehead. Edmund was still far too thin. Peter was breathing hard and sweat stood on his forehead though the day was not hot.

They climbed the last few steps to the crest of the hill and Peter, dropping the picnic basket with something akin to a grunt, flopped down on the grass to catch his breath. "Good Trees," Susan called out. "Would ye of kindness grant us privacy together for a little while?"

The Dryads and Hamadryads drew back on each side, and the Chipmunks and Birds scampered after, leaving the Kings and Queens on the hilltop. One was rarely truly alone in Narnia. In Cair Paravel there were Dogs to smell and Cats to hear and Birds to see, and out in the country there were rustling Trees to listen and laughing Naiads to spy and all manner of small Animals to rush in; and the gossip grapevine twined through everything.

Lucy spread out the red-and-white checked cloth, and Peter, recovering his breath, grabbed her and tickled her until she shrieked for Edmund to help. Susan smiled and began to lay out the food. There were two large meat pasties, a leg of cold chicken, half a loaf of bread, a jar of milk and one of cider, a crisp, sweet, tart apple for each of them, and a sugar-topped cake.

It was a lovely picnic. Susan made Peter and Edmund eat nearly a whole pasty each and nagged at them until they'd drunk all the milk between them. Only then, in the face of good-natured teasing, did she desist and cut the cake. There was silence for a while as they soaked in the autumn sunshine and munched. Peter lay on his back, his cake perched on his chest like an Otter's dinner, and Edmund sat Calormene-stylenext to him, solemnly chewing his piece. Lucy had already finished her cake and lay on her stomach, feet up in the air, plaiting cast-off autumn leaves into a garland. From a corner of the basket, Susan withdrew her knitting needles and the cuff of a sock; then sat with her feet under her, knitting, with many pauses to look up and contentedly watch the others.

It was Lucy who broke the quiet—thoughtfully twirled a reddy-brown leaf and said, "The Harvest Feast is in a week."

Edmund was reaching for another piece of cake. "Let's ask Lune," said he before Susan could get her mouth open.

"I'll write him today," she said. "We haven't seen them in . . . too long. How is Corin?"

Edmund grinned. "He wanted to go with me into the Western March. Said he was nearly eleven and could knock down anyone who attacked me."

Susan smiled fondly. "He won't be eleven until . . ." Her smile faded. "Until the day after tomorrow." She had never missed one of his birthdays since he was three weeks old.

Edmund reached over and patted her leg. "Cheer up, Su. Send a pigeon down tonight and they can come up tomorrow. Anyway, I told Corin I knew quite well he had turned ten just five months earlier,and he said, 'That's nearly eleven!''

That made her smile again.

Peter tossed away the core of his apple. "Day before last, Corin and this rascal here," he said, tousling Edmund's longish hair, "staged a raid on the pies baked that morning by Master Mervin."

Edmund leaped to defend himself. "Master Mervin had baked an extra just for us!"

Susan raised an eyebrow, remembering how unfavorably the chief cook at Anvard had looked upon Edmund's pastry-snatching the first time they visited Anvard. "And how did you arrange that? I was of the belief that Master Mervin shared his pies with none ere the appointed mealtime hour."

Edmund's brow matched hers. "Did you not know, sister, of the pie allotment decreed by Lune the King for the chief dishwasher and carrier of wood and water in the kitchens of Anvard?"

Before she could respond to that Peter cleared his throat pompously.

"I met the two thieves—"

"Not!"

"—in the hall outside Edmund's chamber, to which they intended to repair with their spoils, and I remonstrated with them, endeavouring to shew unto them the error of their ways."

"Whatever you say, Pete."

"They answered me that the pie was by no means ill-gotten, but when I expressed my intention of joining their repast and sharing in their meal, the Prince Corin fixed me with a defiant look and dared me to try. Thus did we engage in hand-to-hand combat up and down the hall until the Prince was forced to admit defeat at the hands of the Narnian High King—"

"Although a fine Calormene vase was shattered, a passing lady was discomfited, and an oil lamp was upset during the combat," added his brother, and Susan frowned. "Immediately following," Edmund went on, "King Edmund challenged the victor to a trial of strength—"

Susan was caught between laughing and scolding.

"—and from that contest did King Edmund emerge the victor—"

"Whereupon the weary contestants retired to the private chamber reserved for them and consumed the hard-earned pie," finished Peter.

Lucy pointed across the remnants of the picnic to a bright yellow leaf by Edmund's leg. "Would you pass me that—thank you. Did you tell Susan what happened next?"

Edmund at that very moment had bitten into an apple, and Peter happened to be mid-swallow, the cider jar raised to his lips and unable to speak. Lucy grinned and went on.

"I am told that while our brothers and and dear cousin Corin were partaking of their much-fought-over pastry, Mrs. Giles, head housekeeper of the castle, heard of the wrestling bout in the upstairs hall, saw the shattered vase and spilt oil, and went in search of his boisterous highness the Prince with the intention of requiring him to set to rights the mess." Lucy selected a clover blossom and added it to her chain. "Being unable to locate the Prince, Mrs. Giles brought the matter to the attention of King Lune, who himself undertook the investigation."

Lucy paused as Susan counted stitches and marked the center of her row in preparation for turning the heel of the sock. When she looked up, Lucy continued. "The confederates in crime were apprehended while yet lapping the traces of their meal from their fingers—"

Peter pulled his crumby fingers from his mouth and pretended not to have heard.

"—and when confronted with the evidence, the two elder readily confessed. Though our dear prince protested that he was not at fault, our brothers the Kings compelled him to listen with them to his father's scolding, and then to share equally in the tasks required of them. For not only did they sweep up the pottery shards, scrub the oil from the floor, and apologize together to the lady whom they had nearly knocked down, but they were also handed over to the mercies of Mrs. Giles for the remainder of the afternoon—"

"—and scrubbed floors and carried linens and laundry for half the beds in the in the castle," grumbled Peter.

"—before they were permitted any supper."

"Try scrubbing pots and carrying wood for Master Mervin," said Edmund, smirking and chucking his apple core at Peter. "I'd take Mrs. Giles any day."

Peter rolled over and snagged one of Susan's knitting needles to retaliate, but she was too swift for him and leaned over to retrieve it.

"I'll take that, thank you."

He had no choice in the matter. Quietly, she sat down again and began picking up stitches, placidly ignoring the glares bouncing between the boys.

Lucy measured off lengths of leafy chain and, judging it satisfactory, twined it round and round into a bushy, crackly crown. This she placed on Edmund's head with a flourish and the words, "All hail King Edmund, the Restored."

Susan bowed her head and murmured, "Hail," but Peter sat up and said,

"We shall need to have a re-coronation for you, Ed."

Susan looked up. Lucy's ear-to-ear grin was reflected in Edmund's half-smile, but Peter was quite serious. "Oh, yes," said Susan, "Shall we do it before the festival next week, or during?"

"If we do it very first on feast-day, before the ceremonies begin," said Lucy, "everyone will be there already, and then we'll have all four of us regular and proper."

"Huzza!" cried Peter. "Astute as always, Lu."

"Unless, of course, Edmund would rather his day not be taken over with all that," she added with an impish grin.

"What?" said he in mock horror. "Share?" And then more seriously, "Certainly not. There would be nothing more appropriate than to follow such an occasion with feasts of thanksgiving and praise to Aslan."

Susan nodded.

"I'm going to give you a new title," said Peter.

Edmund shook his head. "They've called me Edmund the Just for seven years and I would wish none other."

Peter poked him in the arm. "Not that, oxhead. The other ones. You know, Duke of the Lantern Waste and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table. What about Count of the Western March?"

Edmund's eyes were hidden behind that shaggy fringe of hair. "I'd like that very much."

Susan said nothing because she was busily adjusting her festival plans and preparation schedule (the others, of course, did not have mental schedules to adjust) but she approved very much of a third title for Edmund. She looked up when Lucy leaned against her, having left her seat between the boys when they took to speaking in low tones over her head.

Susan laid down her knitting and stroked Lucy's hair. "What is it?"

Her littlest sister looked the picture of unhappiness. "I've been dreadful to you, Susan. I was so angry with you for listening to him, but you wouldn't have let him do what he did if you'd not been overwhelmed in work and if I'd not been running around visiting Edmund and playing spies."

"No," said Susan. "If you hadn't, we would have had no proof he was guilty. And you tried to tell me, but I wouldn't listen."

"And I went and celebrated with Elinda when it should have been just the two of us waiting together—"

"When I wouldn't have been good company at all, and you needed someone who could rejoice with you—"

"I'm sorry, Susan. Would you—would you forgive me?"

"Of course," she whispered, hugging Lucy close. "For was not I forgiven?"

* * *

_finis_

* * *

_And that's _The Broken Sword, _written between January and April 2012. Thanks for reading!_


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